Turn 23 of 44

Offer to give Casey a makeover like Vivian gave you. She agrees in her new voice. She also says that a name like Casey is not feminine and says that her name is Carol. You agree as you two head upstairs to do the makeover. Her house changes to a 50s house. She sits down as you grab everything you need for her makeover. You tell that her clothes need to come off which she does for the undergarments

"Honey," you say, giving her loose curl a fond twirl, "what you need is a makeover. Vivian did mine just last night and look at me now — I've never felt more like myself."

"Oh, would you?" Carol says, and the honeyed voice is hers now, easy as breathing.

"You know, Casey never was a feminine name. I've always felt like a Carol, really. Carol. Yes." She says it twice, testing it, and the second time it clicks into place like a pearl finding its clasp.

You take her by the hand and lead her upstairs, red heels clicking, and it's only at the landing that you notice the house is changing around you — the bare boxes sprouting floral wallpaper, the bare windows growing cafe curtains, the laptop dissolving into a sewing basket mid-sip of Wi-Fi. By the time you reach the bedroom there's a vanity with a tri-fold mirror, a closet of shirtwaist dresses, and a bed with a chenille spread, and Carol doesn't blink at any of it. Neither do you. Houses just come along with their gals.

She sits at the vanity like she's done it a hundred times, hands folded in her lap, watching you in the mirror as you open the drawers — pins, powder, the little pots, a garment bag that was not hanging there a moment ago and is now, full of white satin and petticoats, exactly as Vivian's was. It's all there, the way it's always there.

"Clothes off first, honey," you tell her, laying out the foundations on the spread. "A gal's got to start with what's under it all. Can't build a look on a pantsuit."

"Of course, sugar," Carol says, and stands, and unbuttons the charcoal blouse without a flicker of hesitation, peeling the sharp-pressed sleeves off her arms like yesterday's news. The pantsuit puddles on the chenille. She stands in her modern bra and plain white briefs, tired and thin in the mirror, and doesn't cover herself — there's nothing immodest between gals at a vanity, that's just how it's made.

You smooth the girdle in your hands and reach for her, humming, and the curl by her ear has gone fully golden now, catching the light like the start of something.